


Und wenn sie nicht gestorben sind

by the_law_of_progress



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch, The Interminables - Paige Orwin
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Gen, accidental attempted murder, canon typical attempts to avoid talking about feelings, that's canon typical for both series because apparently all of these characters are a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-05-28 10:31:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19392298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_law_of_progress/pseuds/the_law_of_progress
Summary: Two magical immortals from World War Two keep running into each other over the years.  Sometimes there's tea, sometimes there's attempted murder, sometimes both.





	1. 2013- Peter Grant and the Awkward Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this crossover in mind for awhile now, but I've only recently got the other chapters drafted. It should be five chapters in total. 
> 
> This was mostly written before "The October Man" so no spoilers for that and it doesn’t exactly fit with canon anymore but it also still kind of works? This is set before Lies Sleeping, so no spoilers for that, and also is set sometime after The Interminables but before the sequel.
> 
> Knowledge of both book series not required, just know that Templeton (the Hour Thief) and the Nightingale both became immortal through Magic at some point, although the rules of their immortality work a little differently. 
> 
> Title from a typical end phrase to German fairy tales. The whole phrase is "und wenn sie nicht gestorben sind, dann leben sie noch heute," which can be roughly translated to "and if they haven't died yet, then they are still alive today."

2013.

After hanging around a corpse at one in the morning just to tell the DI that no, a couple of pentagrams on and around the victim's body does not make it a Falcon case, no really Inspector, I promise it's not one of ours, and then crawling back into bed at some ungodly hour before the sun rose meant that I had slept in late.

I drug myself down to the dining room, hoping that being allowed to sleep in meant Molly had taken some pity on my sorry state and maybe left out some breakfast and lukewarm tea, with Nightingale already having gone to the study for his morning refresher on Sophocles or Homer before the day’s Greek lesson.

Instead I found Nightingale, informally dressed in a light blue sweater and dark slacks, drinking tea with an IC1 man in a black suit. I blinked. We didn't usually have guests.

"Um," I said, rather eloquently.

Both heads turned around. "Ah Peter, good. Come in." said Nightingale, gesturing towards my usual seat without setting his teacup down. The other man looked me over quite thoroughly before nodding at me.

"Hello." I said, trying to find the manners that my mother had instilled in me. That took the backseat as I tried to consider why Nightingale would be having tea with a well-dressed man. He obviously didn't work for the Met, he was far too young to be a peer of my Edwardian boss, and he didn't strike me as one of the demi-monde.

Nightingale took pity on me. "Peter, this is Edmund Templeton. He's … He's a…" he paused. I looked from his hesitant face to Mr. Templeton's slight smirk, barely masked by him sipping at his tea.

Oh.

Oh I really didn't need to know this.

"Sir, it's fine, I get it." I say quickly, trying to spare us all this embarrassment. "Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude on your breakfast together." I grabbed a pastry and made to take it with me, when Nightingale waved at me to sit back down. "No, no. I think it's time you met."

Oh god, I thought.

Now, I want to make it clear that I have no problem with Nightingale having a boyfriend, but the idea of meeting said boyfriend after having only gotten… well I really don't know how much sleep I'd gotten but obviously it wasn't enough for this kind of meeting.

"Well, sir, I don't know if now is the best time…" I started, trying to maybe weasel my way out of it, desperately wanting just to eat the pastry and go back to bed. But Nightingale was having none of it.

"Nonsense." he said firmly. That was it then. I settled myself in for a long, awkward breakfast. At least the tea was still hot.

Setting the cup down, Nightingale said, "Edmund and I have had a rather… complicated relationship over the years…" Templeton snorted.

"'Complicated' is putting it mildly don't you think, Thomas?" he said in a very clear American accent. Well that was unexpected. I nearly avoided choking on my pastry. Nearly.

Coughing into my napkin certainly covered my surprise, so that was an excellent strategy, if I do say so myself.

Nightingale waited politely until I was done before continuing, "You see, we first met during the war."

If I hadn't been done coughing, I certainly would have been then. I felt my brain pause. Then: "You met _when_?" I asked, hopefully not as dumbfounded as I felt. I looked from Nightingale, looking fairly spry for a man in his 120’s, and turned to Templeton, who couldn't be more than 35 if it wasn’t for the white streak in his hair. Still, that didn’t make him old enough to have been even a twinkle in his parents' eyes during _the_ War.

Templeton burst out laughing. "Well, I guess it's safe to say that you know _which_ war Thomas is talking about."

I nodded, not trusting myself to say more for the moment. The moment passed.

"So, how are you alive then?"

Templeton wouldn't quite meet my eyes. My copper senses started tingling.

"It's rather a long story." he said, picking up his teacup and taking a sip. A classic evasion tactic, one which I had used myself more than once.

I glanced at my watch; only half past eight. "I think I've got some time." I said. Which was the wrong thing to say.

Templeton drew in a sharp breath, his cup frozen at his lips. Nightingale slammed his own teacup down onto the saucer, his eyes wide. "Take it back." he ordered, sharply.

I blinked. "What?"

"Take your words back. Now!" Said Nightingale. Templeton had pulled out a gold pocket watch with a long chain without opening it and was studying it intently.

"Thomas…" he said softly, still looking at the closed watch.

I couldn't think. I felt a faint sense water pressing in, pressing out from within my chest from within my lungs. _Vestigia_.

Oh no.

Before I could get the words out of my mouth, Nightingale said sharply, "Edmund Templeton, Hour Thief." Templeton sat up straight. Perfectly straight. Military straight. "You have eaten at my table and drank my tea; you owe me an obligation."

I could feel the water strangling my breath and ideally wondered what Templeton had done to earn him such an epithet.

Templeton set the watch on the table and uttered, "Thomas Nightingale, Master of the Folly. What is it that I owe you?"

I could feel the faintest hint of Nightingale's clockwork _signare_ pushing against the rising tide of water.

"In an amendment to our agreement, you shall never accept time from my apprentice, no matter how willingly given. Is this agreed?"

The water gripped at my lungs.

"It is so agreed."

Templeton opened his pocket watch; like the changing of the tide, the water released me, and I breathed freely again. I saw Nightingale move to get up from his chair, but I waved him back down. After gasping for air for a few more moments, I watched as Templeton gently poured me some more tea. “I’m sorry.” he said, not meeting my eyes. “It’s habit. I’m afraid I’m a little low just now, and, well, I’ll take any time I can get.”

Nightingale frowned sharply. He took his eyes off me, turning towards Templeton. “And just what do you mean by that?”

Templeton set the teapot down gently. “Oh, you know,” he said, with forced casualness, “Saving the world takes time.”

That was when I snapped. “All right.” I said. “Is someone going to do some explaining?”

Nightingale glared at Templeton. “I do believe you were going to explain.” He took a long, slow sip of his tea, never taking his eyes off Templeton.

“Yes. Yes, all right.” said Templeton. Then, not quite looking at me, but certainly looking in my direction, he said, “It began during the war. The first time we met, he saved my life.” He paused, took a quick sip of tea, then continued. “Of course the next time we met, he tried to kill me, so I suppose it all evens out.”

Nightingale rolled his eyes. Templeton ignored him.

“You see Peter, I’m not exactly from this world. To be honest, I’m not sure how I travel between here and my own. I can only thank some greater power that I am the only one who’s traveled between worlds.”

I almost choked on my tea. Again. This was going to be a long breakfast.


	2. 1950- Tea and Agreements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 1950 and two very different wizards collide for the second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short note for a short chapter :)  
> I've added a date to Chapter 1: it's set in 2013.

1950.

"Hello again, Thomas,” said the man at the door. He was tall, well-groomed, and dressed all in black, with a caplet across his shoulders and a tall hat upon his head. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by. I know it’s been awhile.”

“Yes, it has.” said the Master of the Folly. It felt like an eternity since that day on the French beach. “How did you get back?” 

Edmund shook his head, his eyes a bit downcast, “I’m… I’m not sure. One minute I was running an errand for the Magistrate, knocked my head on a tree, and the next I’m standing in a park in London.”

Nightingale nodded. In the quiet moments, between calls from the Metropolitan Police asking for his assistance or from trips out to the countryside to attend yet another funeral, he had done some research in the magical library about the mysterious man whose ship had been torpedoed in one ocean and who had woken up in a different one. 

His current hypothesis was that one of his shipmates must have been a very powerful practitioner, who, in his last moments, had overexerted himself and let the spell get carried away. Edmund must have been caught in the spell, and when it wore off, simply disappeared back to his own world. Perhaps being knocked on the head was similar enough to his old injuries that the residual _vestigia_ triggered another jump? 

“Thanks for saving my life, by the way. I never got the chance to say that during the war.”

Memories of that dark night, a night sky filled with the remains of a ship on fire, the smoke blocking out the stars and watching the sea swallow it up, the hulk of steel disappearing into its murky depths. He quickly pushed those thoughts back into the dark corner of his mind where they belonged.

"Of course, don’t mention it." Nightingale said with his first real smile since he had taken over the Folly. "My, but you haven't changed at all. But what’s brought you to my door this time?"

Edmund shifted on his feet. Nightingale has known many young men aged beyond their years by the war; Edmund was not one of them. At least, not on the outside.

"Well, that's sort of a long story. Do you have some time to chat?" he said, with an odd air about him. 

Nightingale began to nod, until he felt the faintest whisper of _vestigia_ grip at his throat, stealing his breath. It felt like water, trickling up his throat, filling his lungs. He froze.

"No… no!" He shouted. Instinct kicked in. He threw his hands up, lining up the _formae_ with a speed that one only learns on the battlefield. Edmun- Templeton had assumed a fighting posture with Nightingale’s refusal.

Without thinking, Nightingale let loose a fireball capable of punching a hole through a Tiger Tank.

It didn’t hit anything except the ground.

A few feet away, across the street, stood Templeton, looking confused and a bit dumbfounded. “I’m sorry.” said Templeton, “It… it doesn’t usually work like that.”

“Work like _what_?” growled out Nightingale, his voice a little horse from the water that had receded from his lungs. “How is it supposed to work? More importantly, where did you learn that spell?”

Templeton pursued his lips, his brow furrowing. “I only asked for _some time,_ you shouldn’t’ve felt a thing. It usually isn’t noticeable.”

Even though Templeton was standing completely still, Nightingale kept his arms extended, the _formae_ easily reachable. 

“As for where I learned it, well. You’re a wizard too, I take it?” Templeton nodded towards Nightingale’s extended hand, from which the fireball had come. Nightingale didn’t dignify the man with a reply. “I learned it in the same way most wizards learn: forbidden books.”

Nightingale‘s brow furrowed. “It takes more than books to be a practitioner,” he said. “Who was your master?”

Templeton frowned. “My master? Is magic different across the pond? I didn’t have one.” He shrugged. “I’m self-taught.”

Nightingale paused. What a curious thing to say. “You must have learned the _formae_ from someone.”

“ _Fo_ _rmae?_ ” the American asked, let the foreign word roll off his tongue with a curious accent. “No, that’s not how I learned magic at all.” 

Curiosity was such a dreadful habit. Normally, there would be superiors to go to, other people to consult with about the sort of protocol involved with a possible black magician willing to talk, however… well. However.

“Would you care for some tea?” Nightingale asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Templeton paused. Then, a small smile crossing his face, asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve got something a little stiffer to drink?”

And so, the Hour Thief came to tea in the Folly for the first time.


	3. 2013- Enter GHOST

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Grant gets lessons in embroidery from a ghost.

2013.

After tea and a very confusing conversation, I was dismissed from breakfast and allowed to nap for a bit, which turned out to be not difficult at all since I was exhausted. It was after my nap that Nightingale informed me that unlike previous visits to our world, Templeton had brought a friend; a friend who was not alive. And because Nightingale’s old war buddy comes from an even worse world than our own, he wasn’t just an ordinary ghost, oh no, he was  _ also _ the avatar of the first world war. Apparently they had saved their own world once or twice.

All things considered, I was pretty happy with my life here as a wizard copper who really didn’t need to concern himself with much outside the M25, besides the occasional unicorn and a trip to fairyland.

This ghost friend was apparently fond of embroidery, and that’s what I found him doing in the sitting room next to the mundane library. So while the grownups gossiped about whatever it is grownups gossip about, Dr. Istvan Czernin- so-called “Devil’s Doctor,” Avatar of the War to End All Wars, and  _ ghost- _ decided to teach me embroidery. You know, for funsies. 

"So, I just… stab the fabric?" I asked, awkwardly holding a wood hoop with a piece of cloth in one hand and a threaded needle in the other. 

In the chair next to mine, the  _ genius res _ of the Great War itself was already stabbing away at a spare washcloth Molly had rather gracefully surrendered to him with a needle and red thread. He’d already sewn a couple little red flowers, poppies I think. In the empty space of the washcloth, the flowers look like they’re floating, probably because they’re missing stems, but Molly hasn’t brought out any green thread yet. 

The ghost sighed. “Yes, you just stab at it. You should remember to stab at in a methodical fashion at least.” He started on another little floating flower. I wondered about his corporality. Could he interact with all matter? Could he, if he so chose, float through walls? How permanent-

“Oh dear.” said Templeton with a sigh, walking into the room. “He’s gotten to you already.” Molly had commandeered his long coat, likely for mysterious stain removal purposes, so he was left with his dark suit that still made me feel underdressed.

The ghostly apparition beside me frowned but didn’t set down his needle. “Edmund, I am trying to teach this young man a useful skill. What have you offered our hosts?” 

An odd expression crossed Templeton’s face, but it quickly disappeared. “Well, I offered not to try and kill him again, in exchange for him sending us home soon.”

I was tempted to ask him what he wasn’t telling us. But I wasn’t going to pry. Obviously, he and Nightingale had come to an agreement years ago, and that agreement was all tied up in residual war guilt and enough PTSD to keep every psychologist in London employed for years to come. I’d seen the way Nightingale would freeze up when I tried to bring up Ettersberg or the Black Library, and it was the exact same way Templeton held himself now.

The ghost frowned at him. “Edmund-”

“It’s fine, Istvan. It’ll be fine.” 

“Then we’re going home soon?”

“Of course.”

Then the ghost hit below the belt. “Do you have time to get home?”

Templeton winced. “I have enough.” he said shortly. And that was that.

For a long moment, it looked like Dr. Czernin was going to argue. I watched in horrified fascination as the ghost flickered, the barbed wire around his feet spreading out a little, like ivy vines crawling up a house. For just a moment, I could swear there were bloody bullet holes in his uniform. But then his form settled back down, and the barbed wire slowly retreated back towards his feet, like Toby lazily strolling in after dinner on a cold winter’s night to settle by the fire. It’s funny, all the similarities we shared: damn stubborn doctors, impatient immortal wizards, and an inability to talk about our feelings. 

It was midafternoon now, nearly half a day since Nightingale’s old American pal had dropped by for tea. I will admit, getting embroidery lessons from a ghost had not been on my to-do list for the week, but I feel like I was making due. Even after my nap, I was still pretty tired, and did my level best not to nod off in the middle of ghost handcraft lessons. 

“How long did you stay last time?” I asked politely, fishing for information. To make it seem more casual, I did stab the fabric, pushing on the needle to make it go through, but apparently this was incorrect.

“No, no, don’t push it, pull it through from the other side, it’s much easier.” A ghostly hand tugged at my hand as I pulled at the needle, and I shivered at the involuntary contact. The  _ vestigia _ was quite unlike anything I’d felt before. It was stronger, more visceral, kind of like when Templeton almost killed me. I swear I could hear screams coming from my left. There was the sound of rifle fire, the sharp smell of mustard gas, and the feeling of blood on my hands. I could feel my skin blistering from the gas, patients dying under my hands, a feeling of hopelessness. And then I felt my own pains leaving. 

Dr. Czernin made a sound that couldn’t be aired pre-watershed. 

“Ohh, ich fühle mich  _ viel _ besser.” he said, relaxing back into the couch contentedly. I stared in horrified silence that was only partially shock, worried that he might discorperate and fall right through the chair. His expression reminded me of the drunks and stoners I’d run into on Saturday nights back when I was on probation. Wait, could ghosts get high on pain? 

“Istvan, es ist nicht nett von dir in einer Sprache zu reden, der der Polizist nicht verstehen können,” said Templeton from across the room, a little chidingly. At least, I thought it was chiding. My German was strictly “ein Bier bitte,” “wo ist die Toilette,” and “Sprechen Sie English?”. 

The ghost doctor smirked at him. “Well then it certainly isn’t polite of you either, now is it?” Then he turned to me, his smirk fading a bit. He looked almost sheepish. “My apologizes, Constable. I should have mentioned that one of my…  _ unearthly _ qualities is pain-removal.”

I frowned. “That wasn’t removal.” I said, “That felt more like pain-giving.” 

Dr. Czernin set down his embroidery. “Really?” he said, giving me a long look. I’d seen that look on Dr. Walid’s face when I mentioned something magical that made him want to shove me in the nearest MRI machine and poke at my brain. Doctors, regardless of living status, are all the same. 

Templeton shook his head. “It seems that there are fundamental differences between the magic of our worlds.” 

I mulled over his words. So far, I’d only ever seen our guests’ magic acting up in the presence of me or Nightingale- sorry, Nightingale or  _ I _ . It’s possible that the basis of his non-Newtonian magic in the presence of a Newtonian practitioner could be the basis of why their magic wasn’t working the way it usually did…

“Edmund would you- oh hello Peter, Dr. Czernin. I was wondering where you two had gone off to.” said Nightingale. He had changed into a proper suit sometime during my nap, and he was now wearing a tan bespoke suit with a simple white shirt, which would have looked rather plain compared to his usual outfits were it not for the dark purple silk tie- a proper cravat, really- and matching pocket square.

Nightingale walked over towards us, taking a long look at Dr. Czernin’s lovely- if eerie- field of red flowers before carefully examining my half-hearted little lines that looked vaguely like a child’s first attempts at drawing straight lines. He gave me a small smile, saying not unkindly, “Perhaps you had better stick with your calculator experiments, Peter. I do believe that you will have more luck with them than with needlework.” I felt like I should have been insulted, had this not basically been blanket permission to blow up more calculators in the name of science, a hardship I was more than willing to endure.

He turned back to Templeton, “Edmund, could I trouble you to come with me to the magical library? I do believe I’ve found some documents that might assist you both in getting back to your world sooner rather than later.”

Templeton’s eyes lit up and he moved quickly to follow Nightingale up to the library. I considered asking if they needed another set of eyes, but just as they were stepping out the door, Dr. Czernin asked, “Edmund? Do you want me to come along? Or should we leave this stuff to the professional wizards?” 

I saw Templeton and Nightingale exchange smirks, before Templeton waved him off. “Thanks Istvan, but we’ve got this under control. I wouldn’t want to interrupt the vital lessons you’re instilling in young Constable Grant.”

I held back a groan. It seems there would be no escaping ghostly embroidery quite yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Istvan: Oh, I feel so much better.  
> Edmund: Istvan, it's not nice of you to speak in a language that the Constable doesn't understand.  
> \--  
> I'm not fluent in German, and am totally open to criticism on everything except Peter's German. He knows what he did.


	4. 1945- "Theirs not to reason why"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1945.  
> The first time the Nightingale meets the Hour Thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually the first chapter written! The chapter title is from Alfred Lord Tennyson’s poem Charge of the Light Brigade. 
> 
> Fun Fact: Penicillin was widely used during the later years of WWII. Although Sir Alexander Fleming had discovered it back in 1928, it wasn’t until 1943 that it could be easily mass produced. In case you were wondering :)

1945.

It had taken him weeks to get to the sea. Now, all that stood between him and home is at least 560 kilometers of barely above freezing water. The waves churned violently in the cold January wind. Or was it February now? He wasn’t sure anymore; he’d lost count of the days somewhere in the French countryside. Or at least, what was left of it. Still, it was better than being in Germany. He shuddered, his shoulder aching at the memories. 

The Americans he had run into back in Colmar had confirmed that this part of France had been liberated some months ago. It was when he was crossing the River Ill that he had been captured and brought before an American general in late January. After realizing that he was not a German spy, they took his report, patched up his arm, dosed him with penicillin, and planned to ship him back with the next batch of wounded. Naturally, that was when the werewolves caught his scent. A single practitioner, even one who hadn’t recently been shot, could not protect the entire 7th U.S. Infantry Division from werewolves on his own. The General was reluctant to send him off alone, but after some persuasion and a small display of magic, he convinced them it was for the best.

He settled down into a sand knoll, giving him some protection from the gale, to contemplate his options. He pulled his pack off his back, arm smarting, reminding him of the hurriedly treated bullet wound that he had had to roughly patched up again somewhere along his trekking halfway across the continent. He carefully tried to determine its range of motion, but barely got his arm parallel to the ground before the sharp pain was too much. Well, swimming back was definitely out of the question. He’d have to head north then, look for a sea port, and plead for passage back to England.

Scooping some sand with his hands, he made a little hole and placed some small bits of sticks and grass in it. He dug around in his pack, searching for a box of matches. His fingers fumbled with the little box. Wind burnt and soaked to the skin, it was difficult work to open the box, only to find that all the matches had been soaked by the gale too.

Unable to light his little fire the conventional way, Nightingale resorted to using a little bit of magic. Muttering the _formae_ ever so quietly, the sticks and twigs burst into flame, finally providing him with a little bit of warmth from the cold winter air.

That was when he heard them. He hadn’t seen nor heard from the werewolves in days, but that didn’t mean that he had lost them. He had hoped that he had gained enough breathing room… but that had been wishful thinking. He wouldn’t truly be safe until he crossed the Channel and made it back to England.

He doused the flames.

The sounds got closer. Over the winds, he could faintly hear men talking, but their words were swept away with in the gale. Through all the sea mist and heavy rains, he swore he could see the English cliffs. To have traveled so far, just to be captured! He wouldn’t have it, couldn’t have it. With the voices getting nearer, he began to line up a series of _formae_ , hoping to create a flashy distraction that might allow him to get away.

That was when he realized the cliffs were moving. 

A bright flash from the foggy depths confirmed to Nightingale that either the Germans had desperately decided to rip the British Isles apart starting with the Cliffs of Dover, or that the objects in the mists were actually two ships. 

The footsteps halted. Raised voices called out, but not, as he had feared, in German. Rather, an American accent said, “Alright, it looks like they won’t make it to port. We’ll wait for them to beach, and fight off anyone not waving red, white, and blue.” As the ships grew closer, Nightingale could make out their shapes. He had had little training in the identification of ships, and wondered if all the Allied ships were American, or if there were some British ships serving alongside her. He privately hoped that one of the ships was British, if only so he could have a cup of tea. The Americans in Colmar had been gracious enough to spare him some supplies for his journey, but they had not, however, given him any decent tea. 

That hope quickly died as the closer of the two ships caught fire. The mist carried the smoke, obscuring both of them. Several of the Americans swore. Out of the smoke, the ships drew nearer, with the one heavily on fire practically beached on the shore. The far ship looked, to Nightingale’s inexperienced eye, rather intact. 

From behind him, the American began to give orders to his troops. Nightingale supposed it was time to introduce himself. “Excuse me?” he said, standing up very slowly, with his open hands clearly raised above his head, empty palms out. “But I believe I could be of some assistance.” 

The American stared at him and swore violently. Several guns were raised at him, but, fortunately, none of them fired. “My name is Captain Thomas Nightingale, of the British Armed Forces.” 

“A Brit? Aren’t you on the wrong side of the Channel?” asked the American, a captain, if he was not mistaken. The captain squinted at him suspiciously. He also did not, Nightingale noted, tell his men to lower their guns. 

Nightingale resisted the urge to sigh heavily. “I’m trying to fix that, actually. If you could-” but that was as far as he got, before a deafening _craaaaaaack BOOM_ thundered nearby. Everyone ducked, watching with horror as the burning ship exploded. 

“NO!” someone shrieked. The American captain looked ashen. “Oh shit.” He whispered, watching as the fiery carcass of the American ship began to sink. A trail of smoke followed a large chunk of battleship as it washed up on shore, a vaguely-human shaped object floating alongside it. It was, all things considered, not the worst sight Nightingale had ever seen, but that certainly did not make it better. He could hear someone retching in the bushes behind him. 

Nightingale began to rush towards the body, ignoring the Americans who still halfheartedly had their guns raised on him. Wadding into the Channel, it quickly became clear that there wasn’t any hope for this one.

“Look out!” shouted an American voice, and Nightingale ducked instinctively. About twenty meters to his right and a few meters back, a shell struck the dry sand. There was a scream of pain and the frantic sounds of men trying to take cover in open terrain. 

Nightingale felt fury build behind his eyes. Staring at the intact vessel, he watched as another shot was being prepared to fire from its main canons. The mechanics might be a little different, but surely the canons of a battleship work similarly to those of a tank. With that in mind, he released the _formae_. 

The shot never left the barrel. Instead, it combusted within the tube, creating a cataclysmic explosion that, somehow, also caught the main conn tower on fire. Nightingale entertained the thought that he could now add “German battleship” to his tally of vehicles he had brought down with fireballs. Mellenby would find it amusing, assuming he made it back to England to tell Mellenby about it. 

When it became apparent that the German vessel was no longer a threat, there was a scramble by the Americans to help rescue the survivors. Unable to swim with his wounded arm, Nightingale pulled back, helping where he could. However, when another chunk of battleship began to float over not a handful of meters from him, Nightingale wadded out a little deeper, mindful not to go too deep because of his arm, and began to search it for survivors. 

The chunk of metal had obviously come from somewhere inside the ship, as it had a watertight door still sealed the side bobbing above water. Nightingale was honestly surprised it was floating, until he touched it. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

_Water began to creep up his body, pulling him in, pulling him down. It began to trickle up his neck, over his chin, seep into his mouth, his nose, his ears, his eyes; he was_ drowning _._

He jerked his hand away from the metal, trying to shake off the horrible _vestigia_ . Pulling himself together, he muttered a quick fourth-order spell that gently unlocked the doors with a soft _click_. He tugged at the doors, wincing as he pulled too strongly with his injured arm. 

Inside the small space are several bodies, clearly dead, except one. Frightened eyes meet his. Nightingale reached out his hand. Pulling out the drowning man takes some effort, but the grateful gasps of air of the rescued man make it worth it. Nightingale half carried the man to shore, breathing a bit heavily himself. Reaching the dry sand, the man collapsed down, coughing and sputtering up water, still breathing in big gulps of air. Nightingale held him up by his shoulders, keeping him from falling face-first into the sand. 

The American captain came over, clasping Nightingale on his shoulder; a little frantic. “Were there others in there?” He asked, wide-eyed. The captain looks back and forth between Nightingale and the man he rescued several times, before settling on Nightingale. It’s the rescued man who responds. “No…” he said hoarsely. “All… dead.”

The captain pressed his lips together, but didn’t speak. He patted Nightingale on the shoulder, “Good work,” he said faintly, still looking rather shaken. He must be newly promoted, Nightingale thought for no particular reason. “Take him up to the dunes, we’ll set up camp for the night up there.” Nightingale nodded, still a little out of breath, before the captain turns, leaving to assess the other survivors. 

Nightingale turned to the rescued American, still lying in the sand. “Are you able to stand?” he asked softly, trying but unable to assess the condition of the man in front of him.

“Not… not sure.” he replied, panting a little. He pushed against the sand with his arms. Nightingale could see them trembling. He wrapped his good arm around the man’s chest, pulling him up with one strong sweep. The rescued man made a startled noise, but gained his feet quickly enough. His legs still shake, leaning heavily on Nightingale. Arm in arm, the two make their way into the dunes.

“What’s your name?” asks Nightingale, trying very hard to keep a light conversational tone. 

The man starts a bit. “It’s Templeton. Edmund Templeton.” he pauses, breathing heavily, then. “I didn’t know you were a Brit.” 

“Born and raised I’m afraid. Are you a lifelong American, Mr. Tempeton?” he asked.

The American smiled wryly. “You did save my life, I think you can call me Edmund.” 

The conversation halted as the reached the steep edge of the dunes, focusing their energies on climbing up the unstable sandy sides of the dunes. 

Once they reached the little camp, Nightingale set Edmund down gently onto a large log. “So, my dear rescuer,” said Edmund, “Do I get a name?”

Nightingale smiled, “It’s Thomas. Thomas Nightingale.” 

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Thomas,” said Edmund, sticking out his hand. Nightingale shook it, feeling only the faintest bit of _vestigia_ from the man. Perhaps one of the dying men had been a practitioner, he mused. Although, it was possible that Edmund himself was one. Before he could bring himself to ask, the American captain swept in, giving orders for all able hands to help set up camp. By now it had begun to get dark, the English shores completely invisible in the darkness. The tide had begun to turn, sweeping out the remnants of the naval battle. 

After having set up some tents and starting a little campfire, Nightingale carefully poured the contents of his canteen into the kettle. He took a few little sticks of driftwood and set them up to have the kettle above the fire. As they waited for it to boil, Nightingale pulled out some foodstuffs from his pack, as well as a couple cigarettes. He offered one to Edmund, the other man curled up as close to the fire as he could without getting burned. The American took the cigarette, using the fire to light it.

They sat in silence for awhile, questions forgotten in place of enjoying the warmth of the fire against the cold sea air and the taste of stale cigarettes in the misty night.

The next morning, camp was broken up, and the Americans escorted Nightingale and the survivors to a nearby French port city. It was quite a sight: a former fishing village with houses half destroyed, and a look of grim determinedness in the eyes of her people. The sight of the Americans lightened the mood, and they were welcomed with open arms by the locals. A young doctor from the local hospital personally rebandaged Nightingale’s arm, chatting with him and thanking him for his service in passable English. Though he had studied French in school, Nightingale couldn’t bring himself to mutter more than the most basic of _merci_ ’s to the doctor’s words. 

When he was done, Nightingale went to check on Edmund, who was being tended to by a matronly nurse. Apparently, she spoke not a word of English, nor did Edmund speak any French, but that did stop them from attempting to hold a lively conversation. She left them with a laugh and a flirtatious wink, to which Edmund gaily responded with a blown kiss in her direction.

As soon as she was gone, Edmund’s face dropped the smile, taking on blank features. Not looking at Nightingale, he got up and walked towards the door. He gestured for Nightingale to follow him. They walked in silence for a long while, neither wanting to ask trivial questions about health or, heaven forbid, make small talk about the weather. Instead they merely walked next to one another, back towards the little house where a kindly fisherwoman had agreed to put them up for the night. 

After a while, Edmund said, “My ship wasn’t anywhere near France.”

Nightingale started, turning to stare at the American beside him. “It wasn’t?”

Edmund shook his head wordlessly.

“Where were you?”

“Somewhere in the Pacific. It was kamikazes.”

Nightingale didn’t know what to think. The amount of magic to displace someone to the other side of the world… it wasn’t Newtonian. 

A thousand questions buzzed through Nightingale’s mind. Amongst Nightingale’s peers, there were several who preferred academic work to the more physical work of Newtonian magic; David Mellenby was one of them. So naturally, all of the questions sounded like him. 

But Nightingale wasn’t Mellenby. Instead, he thought of David’s face when he realized that there was only room for one on the glider. Nightingale remained silent, and the questions remained unasked.

The stillness felt heavy between them. 

“They want to send me to England.” Edmund still didn’t make eye contact.

“Oh?” said Nightingale, turning back to staring at the wall. 

“Mm.” A pause. “I’ve never been to England.” 

“It’s quite lovely this time of year.”

Edmund started. He looked over at Nightingale. “Really?” he asked.

Nightingale turned, looking at Edmund. He considered for a long moment. “No.” he said finally, “Not really. It’s rather cold and dark most of the time.” He paused again. “But I wouldn’t prefer to be anywhere else.”

Edmund almost smiled. He turned back to the wall. They sat for a while longer. Then, “I think I’ll go to England then. Enjoy the cold and dark for a bit.”

Nightingale smiled. 

They departed soon after, seeking out their beds.

That evening, the whole company had been invited to a grand party hosted by the one functional cafe in the village. The evening was full of wonderful music played by local musicians in the main square. Hot drinks were passed around, stories were swapped, and lively dancing kept everyone occupied well into the early hours of the morning. It was a raucous night of revelry. Nightingale slept right through it.

The next morning, a few fishermen agreed to sail across the Channel, taking Nightingale, Edmund, and the more grievously injured of the boat survivors to England. When the White Cliffs came into sight, Nightingale found himself leaning heavily on the railing on the edge of the little boat, his feet not quite holding his weight. He felt more than saw Edmund’s approach, a hand resting on his shoulder, and automatically accepted the small object Edmund held out to him. It was a handkerchief. He nodded his thanks, unable to take his eyes away from the English shoreline. Lifting the handkerchief, he carefully dabbed the tears away from his eyes. 

At long last: home.


End file.
